


Don't be a drag, just be a Queen

by versti_fantur



Category: LazyTown
Genre: Drag Queens, Flirting, Glanni's purple lipstick, I'm sorry I'm underage and never been to a bar, M/M, let alone a drag show, so i'm sorry for any innacuracies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:41:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24662479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/versti_fantur/pseuds/versti_fantur
Summary: Glanni is a drag queen, and meets Íþróttaálfurinn at a bar. Things ensue.
Relationships: Glanni Glæpur/Íþróttaálfurinn
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10





	Don't be a drag, just be a Queen

**Author's Note:**

> Haii im back! Not written Glannithro in a while but here's something! Inspiration for this was from LazySnails' drag persona for Glanni, Poker Face, so all credit goes to him! Also when Glanni is in drag, he uses she/her pronouns so don't be confused!

Glanni dusted a final sprinkling of powder over his face, his skin shimmering in the low dressing room light. With one more touch of highlighter, he admired his makeup in the mirror, turning his head this way and that, and pursed his lips; he looked damn good and he knew it. Picking up his lace-front from the wig stand and sliding it onto his head, he readjusted the bangs so they fell flatteringly over his forehead, the dark black hair contrasting against his pale skin, and he smirked. In the mirror, Poker Face grinned back, and experimentally tossed her hair to make sure the wig was secure.

“You’re up in two minutes,” a queen with pink hair said as she pushed open the door and sat down in the chair beside her, reapplying her lipstick on her overdrawn lips. Poker nodded, flashing her a brief smile before standing up, her heels clicking on the slightly sticky floor as she made her way to the stage.

The club was dark and lit mainly with strobe lights focused on the stage, but a few colour changing strip lights along the ceiling allowed her to see where she was going. As she sashayed past a tipsy guy, she grabbed the brightly coloured cocktail from his hand, shooting him a playful wink before he could complain. The alcohol burnt the back of her throat as she swallowed it, but the sugary, fruity taste quickly soothed it. Feeling its warmth spread through her body, she licked her lips as she surveyed the crowd from the side of the stage, waiting for her name to be announced. Her eyes lingered on a man dressed in yellow near the back of the club; he sure as hell wasn’t a regular, nor did he even look particularly comfortable being there, and Poker immediately made it her mission to make him have a good time. Even if that did mean giving him a lap dance in the middle of her set.

She chuckled to herself, adjusting her fake boobs one last time whilst the announcer called her name, and she strode onto the stage as the first few bars of the song started playing. She knew basic choreography, but she always enjoyed adding some in the moment—including the audience in her dancing always led to higher tips. She could barely hear the clicking of her heels over the audience’s cheers as she shook her ass in time to the beat, winking over her shoulder before strutting out along the walkway. 

Her movements were fluid, sensual, and she bit her lip as she took the dollar bills held out towards her, occasionally tracing one long, manicured nail along someone’s jaw, their wrist; the money kept coming. It was a shame they were all single dollars though. 

The man at the back wasn’t holding any cash, but Poker wasn’t too bothered—it’d be fun to get him a little wound up, and after briefly glancing down, she jumped off the stage as the crowd screamed. The man looked rather alarmed as he realised she was heading straight for him, pressing himself up against the wall, but she just licked her lips and took his face between her hands. 

“I-” he started, his eyes wide, but she shook her head ‘no’, still lip-synching along to the music. As the chorus ended, she leant in, pressing a kiss to his cheek and leaving a lipstick mark with a teasing smile, before darting back to the stage to finish her number.

As she made her way back to the dressing room, she shoved the wad of cash into her bra, and reached for her bad, searching through it to check her phone—it was almost midnight, so she had another few hours before she had to go back to her apartment. She pulled the stack of tips back out of her bra, and flipped through them—this, along with the money she’d already saved, would mean she’d hopefully have enough to pay this month’s rent on time. Shoving it into her bag, she grabbed a pack of cigarettes and her lighter, slipping out of the fire exit into the alleyway outside.

\--

Poker leant against the cool bricks, her wig catching on some rough edges but she didn’t really care. Smoke danced from her lips, swirling into the night sky as she exhaled, a cigarette hanging between her purple nails. Kicking at an empty can on the ground beside her, she crushed it beneath her six-inch heels with a wry smile. It was rare that anyone else came back here, meaning she could relax and enjoy the night air. She should probably have been cold, standing in the November breeze in fishnets and a bodysuit, but the alcohol she’d drank seeped warmth into her veins, so she could barely feel it.

The nearby fire exit opened, and someone walked out, but she didn’t look up until they leant against the wall next to her. Her eyes travelled slowly up the stranger's body until she realised it was the same man from before, and the side of her lip quirked into a half-smile.

“Couldn’t get enough of me, huh?” She smirked, as the man shifted awkwardly; although it was dark, she could see the blush lightly colouring his cheeks.

“I’m Íþróttaálfurinn.” His accent was thick, and Poker hadn’t heard anything similar to it in a long time. 

“Well good evening, Íþróttaálfurinn.” The name rolled off her tongue easily, and he frowned, staring at her like he was unused to such fluid pronunciation. Poker twitched her nose and took another drag from her cigarette, “Did you enjoy the show?” Íþróttaálfurinn nodded, and the motion meant his face caught the light, illuminating Poker’s lipstick mark; dark purple, like a bruise against his cheek. 

“I’ve never seen a drag show before, but you were very good,” he said after a moment, shaking his head as Poker offered him a cigarette.

“So I took your drag cherry then?” She smirked, blowing smoke upwards. “Interesting.” She half expected him to be awkward, but Íþróttaálfurinn laughed, a low chuckle that stirred something in her stomach.

“I didn’t get a chance to tip you.” He broke the silence again, reaching into his pocket to take out a wallet, and handing her a few bills. 

“Thanks,” she said, glancing at them as she made to tuck them into her bra. “60? Really?” she frowned for a second before it melted back to her usual vaguely bemused expression.

“Isn’t that enough? I wasn’t sure how much-”

“What? No, it’s more than I usually get,” she took another drag from her cigarette, noticing how Íþróttaálfurinn’s eyes followed her lips as they wrapped around it and stained it purple. “But you can tip whatever you think it was worth.” She tipped her head back to lean it against the wall, the sky was cloudless, but the streetlights blotted out the stars, and she let a smile dance over her lips, amused at how unsubtle Íþróttaálfurinn was as he looked at her.

“What’s your name?” 

“Poker Fa-” 

“No, your real name” Íþróttaálfurinn interrupted before she could finish, and she pursed her lips in annoyance. But then she hesitated for a second; not many people in the club scene knew who she really was, and most didn’t even recognise her out of drag, but Íþróttaálfurinn didn’t seem the type to tell everyone. 

“…Glanni.”

“Glanni,” Íþróttaálfurinn repeated, “Would you like to get drinks sometime? With me?” 

“We’re literally outside a bar right now.” 

Íþróttaálfurinn blushed a little, “You know what I meant.”

Poker smirked as she played with her hair, taking a lipstick from her bra and grabbing Íþróttaálfurinn’s arm. The purple was dark against his skin. “There’s my number. Call me.” As she finished, he lifted his wrist and pressed a kiss beneath her writing, before dropping her cigarette butt, grinding it under her heel, and slipping back inside. It was almost strange the way she hoped he would call her soon.

**Author's Note:**

> I might write another chapter if I have time ;)
> 
> Comments/kudos are wonderful :D


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